


Épée

by ThereminVox



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 10:53:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21117581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: Got creative and decided to redefine épée to describe the fencing helmet rather than the sword.





	Épée

**Author's Note:**

> Got creative and decided to redefine épée to describe the fencing helmet rather than the sword.

* * *

“_Watch carefully and emulate my motions_.”

Searing brands of niceties leave third degree burns upon Jeremiah’s stoic tongue. If possible, it was a _further _condensed variant of ‘_please_’. An olla podrida of words summarising that bothersome plea.

“_Yeah, yeah_.”

The responding voice lowers a pitch.

_Mocking_.

“_My eyes are open.” _

‘_Pleased’ _is not present in Jerome’s anatomy. The dead skin cells, etching an outline of his face, peel with petulance, nevertheless amused by the polarity between he and his identical half.

“But, only ‘cause you asked so nicely.”

But, only because he revels in the realm of absurdity. The realm that was not a parallel universe or alternate dimension, but that, instead, of pure, plain as a pikestaff, _piercing _reality.

In glaring contrast, Jeremiah is ever imbibed on the spirit of monotony. A bristling pedagogue at heart with an exceptionally sensitive cock’s head, beading the precum of Solomon’s inkwell. Pricks of arousal set Jerome’s pubic hairs alight at the thought of his flesh being painted by tepid streaks of that essence.

Whether from a mortified, latent attraction to Megamind or lax acceptance of the absurd, sans resistance, he was yet to decide. Regardless of dormant desire, there was only one thing he knew for certain. Pluto was pegging him something fierce with the hilt of that Stygian blade.

“I‘m aware you’ve had your fair play at wielding the compact sword, but this is a sport that requires entropy to be absent.”

Jerome observes, absent cognition, as his brother fits himself with a helmet, all at once obscuring his face by mesh netting. Its ivory expanse of fabric is near uniform with his pallid complexion, blending with the shafts of artificial, moonlit radiance emitted from debilitating stage lights.

“**_English_**.” Jerome jeers, vexation evident in his flinty tone, knowing well what entropy meant but having been no less annoyed by his toddling Oxford of an estranged sibling.

“Erratic movements of any kind must be denied in favour of grace and strategem. Every attack and parry _must_ be precise. Absolutely no room for error.”

A room that was momentarily, if not conveniently, illustrated by spacious opulence of abandoned fleapit. A theatre of which was occupied by vacancy, courtesy of Jeremiah’s vertiginous skills of persuasion. Hypnotic as the eyes that terrified its owner in fleeing. It is in this surrealist rendition that Jongleur was not made sacrifice. Indeed, he and his cronies were yet useful as competent rooks.

“_Yawn_. Are we gonna _slit_ throats or caress them to a lullaby?”

Jerome’s reflexes are vampiric as the canines that flash upon receiving the blade cast at him in offering. Examining the gorgeous forgery, he grins with satisfaction. However, there was still one middling matter to consider.

“You can keep the helmet.” Jeremiah stalls his poise to toss the helmet when Jerome dismisses him with a wave of his slender sword.

“Can’t have the dirt and sweat seeping into my pores. Started a new skincare routine, you see.”

Jeremiah’s reflexes are suffused with a marginal discrepancy, scarcely given time to react as Jerome makes a quick thrust of the blade’s flexible tip, effectively penetrating the foreskin of protective headgear partially sheathing his brother’s hand.

Quick, meticulous swipes leave the épée cleaving in three perfect dimensions. A triptych of geometric patterns compressed of volume, falling limp and formless in the palm of Jeremiah’s gloved hand.

“_**En garde!”, **_the tregetour exclaims, decibels of jocosity tickling his voice with childlike urgency.

Unamused, Jeremiah allows the épée’s lifeless threads to slip from grasp with one dramatic circumduction of wrist.

“So much for grace, huh?” Jerome winks, stopping to adjust himself. The suit’s tailoring was far too tight to accommodate his Junior which made him convinced that all fencers were liable to be cursed with micropenis…

Fortunately, it seems his Broski was spared such a hapless fate. It was only natural they were the same size; hefty in both length and girth. He wasn’t given to lie in favour of exaggerating an extra inch on his part. Truth of equal measure was evident in their intimacy. How his body was a language of fluency to Jerome’s incestual caress. Given his fencer speculation, in addition to the sport being often associated with wealth and prestige, he was glad Jeremiah didn’t somehow become victim to Affluenza, resulting in shrunken manhood. (To compensate the engorged ego).

In any case, Jeremiah feels a familiar strain of blood vessels rolling to the back of his skull, scraping at the edges of said ego. He feels it intensely as Jerome prolongs his little show, intentionally, effectively stretching his twin’s wry look of veiled disgust.

“_We’re here to spar, Jerome. Nothing more._” Drips of venomous finality leak from Jeremiah’s rigid timbre.

Jerome frowns, continuing to palm himself, progressing with increments of pressure. Initially, he was simply relieving his groin of autoerotic asphyxiation. Now, he was beginning to get excited from a _different_ act of sparring. Ipso facto, something _sensual_.

“What gave you the idea-” Pausing to grunt, his cock semi-erect and swelling with every increasing stroke of heated second. “That I wanted something more?” Punctuating the inquiry with a salacious purr.

“You’re delusional.” Jeremiah scoffs, narrowing his eyes, voice muffling further by combination of mask and the theatre’s stuffy air.

“And you’re sending mixed signals.”

Unbeknownst to them both, they had begun to encircle one another. About the stage, they were ravenous performers, bereaved of audience, yet nevertheless passionate in deliverance.

“I’m instructing you on how to properly handle a blade in combat. Although, given your behaviour thus far, perhaps another day might be best. Frankly, I’ve tired simply from being in your presence.”

Jeremiah speaks as a toilworn babysitter, not at all sincere in his scathing rebuke, but nonetheless candid. He loved his brother, that much was true. Confessedly, he proffers this sin to the lecherous priest. Applauds himself silently for eschewing any sign of shaky feet.

“There’s other blades you can teach me how to use.”

_Bonus points for being ambidextrous. _This thought is reserved, yet concealed as the throbbing strain of tender game against vegan leather.

Still, they waltz at a safe, oscillating pace. Body heat intimates as static, accumulating, generating to a vortex of sexual tension. Negative and positive charges waging war within the hollow sphere of calenture. Jeremiah’s intent to catch him off guard is a challenge well met by a rhythmic prod of energy. The consequent concentration of metal clanging is music to his ears.

To Jerome, a symphony of soft whimpers, evoked by his brother, is all the opera he could ever aspire to witness, in all its sodomised glory. In the throes of overstimulation, Jeremiah was irresistible in a manner that was ineffable to semantics of physicality. Unable to be properly tasted in full-bodied flavour. To be devoured by the tongue, pressed against cheek, permitting passage to the phallus, divine.

Jerome watches carefully; emulating the motions, stage lights all but aching to participate. To their lambency delivers a lascivious flicker, dancing in time to the angelic glow of figures twirling about in the dregs of night.

Jeremiah commits every vein of Jerome’s hand to memory. The effortless, surprising angles of his agile execution, every ounce of opposite relative to his standard ilk of brash and reckless. Without form. Without function. Delicate. Prominent. To the parasitic thoughts of carnality infesting his mind, they were salient. Kindling the fire raging against the works of the flesh. Boiling and teeming in the sacrificial blood.

Jeremiah was no fool. But, in every man, there existed a weakness. _A tool. _His twitching cock, to be sure. But, there was yet more. Beneath the white purity of second skin, once belied a virgin. This second skin was yet tainted. Besmirched by begrimed hands.

Jerome prides himself as the incubus.

“And I’ll really give you something to be tired about.”

_Fucked to submission_, is what the nympho ginger wants to say. To repurpose the hilt of his lithe blade as a plug to fill his brother’s tight entrance. But, he tries. Dare say, he _tries_to be less crass in his seduction.

With roseate cheeks, Jeremiah is not ashamed to admit his appetite in this heat sick that consumes. Both are delirious. Fell to indomitable craving. Contagious is the laughter that spreads as a blanket, abounding. 

He has little choice but to surrender. 

Pure. 

_Plain_. 

**_Piercing_**.

* * *

“**_Take your best shot_**.”


End file.
